


White to Maroon

by fathand



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Study, First War with Voldemort, Light Angst, MWPP, Multi, i promise it's not all doom and gloom... it's hopeful at least?, sort of??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-14
Packaged: 2020-02-10 23:16:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 4,562
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18670363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fathand/pseuds/fathand
Summary: May 2019





	1. One.

**Author's Note:**

> For my very own Moony and Padfoot.
> 
> Title from Marika Hackman's 'Animal Fear'.

May has never been his favourite month. 

The summer months have always been his favourites, for reasons so unkind. He can withstand the heat if it means shorter nights, less raised and angry lines upon his sunburnt skin. He is a country boy, born and bred, finding comfort in the mud and the mosquito bites that can be quelled with gathered herbs; something delightful in the simplicity of it all. He misses home when he is at school in a way he never thought he would. But then again he misses school twice as much when he is at home. 

Yet his Ma has always loved May.

Before it happened, his Ma would let him roam the field behind the barn where the sheep would graze during the day. He remembers uprooting the last daffodil of the season with a gap-toothed smile and pressing it into her large, calloused hand. She had smoothed back the hair on his forehead, pressed back with a delicate kiss to the skin between his eyes, accepted the gift. He had cried when she crushed the petals between the pages of one of his grandfather’s old Britannicas, stacking the rest on top; careful, methodical, perfect. She had not explained. 

“Just you wait,” she said, softly. Always softly. 

The daffodil is hanging in the hall now, tucked neatly and precisely away behind glass. Close enough to see but not to touch, too fragile to hold. The life in the yellow is gone; the moisture squeezed from the green. Veined and flat and ripped from its place. Taken out of context. Sometimes he feels overwhelmed with the desire to put it back: remove the glass, step outside, crumble it into powder and let it float on the wind like ash. Hold a memorial for what once was. The barn is used for storage now and the roof has at least three leaks. (They had had to sell the sheep.)

After it happened, she kept him tucked inside as often as she could and she read to him. Novels and epic poetry and all sorts of Muggle stories. Tales of magic and he could not help but laugh because even at five or six he knew the difference between the words on the page and the feel of the thrum in your blood, the moon in your bones. He didn’t really know what it meant, not yet, but the crease between his Ma’s eyes always cut his giggles short. She didn’t understand. She never would. 

When he learned, he read to himself. He read and read and read till he thought his eyes would bleed. He liked to crawl between the pages and feel their caress like feather-light kisses and cover himself with the thick paper like a blanket to hide from the cold. He still does, sometimes, holed up in his dorm, not hiding but secluded from the others. He can lose himself, a little, shake the ache from his back, unclench his jaw, let it drip from his fingers and into the text. 

He was always a little obsessed with bodies, in a way he didn’t understand till Hogwarts. He caught the words on his skin, let them settle and stain, coat the back of his throat and swim in the whites of his eyes. Body and mind became one. At 11 he learned the art of a shoulder-nudge, a playful kick, a pinch or a shove when words just won’t do. 

At 17 he has learned dark hair between pale fingers, the jutting out of hip bones, the gravity of a stag, the heat of another body in your arms, tears staining your shirt.

And finding long red hairs caught in the fibres of your jumper, hours later, a reminder of the papers and the laws and the oncoming war. 

He loves Hogwarts and he misses his Ma. The two are not mutually exclusive. Her letter lies beside him on the grass, sweet and concise. It begs a reply but, for now, he gazes at the lake. He feels calmer than he has ever felt, the sun setting and the moon but a shadow in the sky.

_Come what come may, / Time and the hour runs through the roughest day._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote from Macbeth (1.3.156)
> 
> Thank you for reading.


	2. Two.

Afterwards, Lily showers in his dormitory’s bathroom and makes faces at herself in the mirror, one arm wrapped around her chest to keep her towel up. She runs the fingers of her other hand down the bridge of her nose, across her cheeks, along her jaw. The skin is tight from the hot water, bumpy in places and smooth in others, pink patches clashing with her hair (though James says he finds the colour endearing). She doesn’t feel all that different than she did a few hours ago, when she smiled at him and made up her mind.

She steps back from the sink and looks, really looks. Her hair is heavy with water, messy and clean and dark. It looks brown. She squints till she doesn’t recognise her own reflection, till her eyes no longer seem green. She thinks of the planes of James’ dark skin, the heat of his palms, the insufferable (adorable) bark of his laugh. 

He could go on for miles and she would never grow tired. She ran cross-country in primary school: she’s prepared.

_Behold your reflection, / your one untidy body. You’re breathing in it. It’s yours._

She opens her eyes, takes a deep breath and holds it. Then puts on her pyjamas.

“It was nice of the others to clear out for the evening,” she says, sliding into bed next to him. His hair is still springy from his own shower, the pillow slightly damp. She can feel the wet patch forming underneath her own head but his hand comes to rest on her waist and his cold feet touch hers and she loses her train of thought. 

“It’s the least they could do,” he says and the words are quiet, content, soft. “I mean, I have to deal with Pete’s snoring and Black and Lupin’s poorly disguised eye-sex on a daily basis. I think I deserve this.” Less soft, but it earns him a snort of laughter as she curls in close. He squeezes gently on her waist ( _this_ ) then moves his hand up, splays his fingers out against her ribs.

The intensity and, if she’s being honest, loose uncertainty from before has dissipated but the love remains. She’s a little overwhelmed by it and she feels her chest expand. She feels the years line her insides, wires coiling round like the rings of a tree. Flowers bloom and die; the world spins. She wants to share it all with James.

“I love you,” he whispers.

“It’s like you read my mind.”

He kisses her.

“I love you too.”

_Solace will find you here, slide its palm / underneath your sad busted heart, but not self-pity, nor denial._

“I’m slightly terrified,” she says and she wasn’t expecting the tremor in her words to be so pronounced. It’s one thing saying it and another showing it. Choosing to be vulnerable, deciding and claiming and owning her heart; that has been a strength of hers. The weakness in her voice escapes of its own accord and that scares her more than she could ever say.

“It’s okay. No one’s asking you not to be.” She hears him breathe, feels it hot on her cheek. “Shit, I’m scared too. I don’t think any of us really know what’s coming, how to prepare, how to fight back. What about Remus, you know?”

“He’s always been more concerned with self-preservation that the rest of us.”

“He can’t afford not to be.”

They’re quiet for a moment.

_soft blankets to hide in [...] / calm the burdened mind._

“Let’s go to sleep. We can think about it in the morning.  
“We have time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quotes from “At the Museum of Mercy” by Betsy Housten, published in Cotton Xenomorph
> 
> Thank you for reading.


	3. Three.

Sirius is hanging out the window, smoking a cigarette, and Remus is hit by the sudden image of him falling, falling, hitting the ground below with a hard smack.

“I just saw you die.”

Sirius coughs.

“Wh- you what?” He chokes on his exhale, white smoke sputtering and dissolving into the night air. He pulls himself into the room, sits on the window sill; his back to the stars and the moon and the hills. The navy paints a backdrop behind him. Remus thinks it a pretty picture.

He laughs and crosses the room, snatching the cigarette from Sirius’ hand. Their fingers brush and Sirius smirks.

“Oh, haha, very funny,” he says as Remus inhales. They bicker, for a while, before settling into the quiet. When he finishes the smoke, he stubs it out on the sill and Sirius flicks it over the edge. Remus Vanishes it before it hits the ground.

He watches him tilt his head and lean back against the window frame. A year ago he would’ve questioned his right to place a hand on his leg or tuck a loose hair behind his ear. Ten months ago he wouldn’t have followed Sirius up the dormitory stairs. (Ten months ago he would’ve still been in the common room, would’ve claimed a bottle of Firewhiskey for himself, would’ve pointedly ignored Sirius and then left to wallow in self-pity in an alcove by the stairs. He would’ve cried - though he wouldn’t have let anyone know - and then tucked all those pesky emotions back behind more pressing issues like his Prefect duties and studies and war and death.)

Now, he takes Sirius’ hand in his.

“Alright, you queer.”

But he kisses Remus anyway.

_Stars fell upon me then. And the river ran and night laid its golden white palms on the ruins of my chest._

“Everything okay?” He speaks the words into Remus, ends the question with a light kiss to the corner of his mouth. He’s nervous, Remus can tell, but they’re at this point again; there’s trust again. (And the love never left.)

“Yeah.”

“Do you wanna go back downstairs?”

“No. I’m good.”

Sirius scratches at the nape of his neck and Remus closes his eyes, enjoying the blunt edge of his nails. The only sounds are their breathing and the vague noises - music, dancing, laughter - from underneath them. Sirius flattens his hand and pushes his fingers up, then grasps at Remus’ curls, tugging slightly.

“Oi.”

Sirius harrumphs and stretches up to kiss him again.

They share another cigarette and a few more kisses, then return to the party. A sense of unity has spread throughout the students (that they pretend is due to the upcoming end of year exams and not the rising confidence among extremists).

Remus and Sirius dance a little too close but, perhaps out of kindness, no one seems to notice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote from “Three Bridges” by Saadi Youssef (trans. Khaled Mattawa)
> 
> Thank you for reading.


	4. Four.

Windows line one side of the gallery and the day outside is bright and clear. The room is filled with light. The whole place seems airy, clean and perfectly civil - so not exactly Sirius’ go-to destination for leisure activities. But Remus and Lily had made a list of all the museums they had wanted to see and James agreed with Lily and Peter agreed with James and-

Well, now Sirius is standing in the V&A, feeling a little bit out of place. He’s never really known all that much about art. It makes him feel a bit stupid.

He’s watching Remus stare quite intently at a sculpture of some lads fighting each other naked (bit gay if you’d ask Sirius) and vaguely listening to Pete read out the accompanying plaque. He seems to be listing quite a few dates but Remus is glancing towards him now, has caught him staring, lips quirking upwards in a shy smile.

“Oi, Pete!”

Remus winces at the loud noise as Peter startles slightly and they all turn to see James weaving through the bodies, made of flesh and blood and marble and cast bronze. He seems overly-focused on reaching them and Lily seems fairly miffed as she follows at a more reasonable pace.

“Pete!”

“Quiet, Prongs,” Remus hisses as James stops before them with bright eyes that immediately ignore Sirius and Remus and instead fall solely on Peter. Lily approaches behind him.

“James, I swear to God, if you-”

“I found lesbians, Pete! C’mon, look, they're in that glass cabinet over- don’t give me that look, Lils. This is purely from an academically artistic perspective, of course.”

Sirius will admit: he does want to see the lesbians. But he also wants to chase after Remus who is starting towards a different statue, away from James and his (as Lily now seems to be putting it) _perverted_ enthusiasm. Peter is no better.

Sirius and Remus wander in the other direction. The room is long and tiled and Sirius finds he is enjoying himself more with each passing minute. Or perhaps just each passing minute away from Peter’s persistent questions and Lily’s unending artsy commentary. Remus carries a quiet admiration, only voicing his opinions when Sirius pokes him after noticing his Thinking Face. Then he’ll say something like ‘classic Greco-Roman features’ or ‘interesting presentation of Catholic idolatry’, each comment sending something like pride or awe shooting through Sirius. It’s a bit gross.

In front of one window, a marbled woman holds an infant by his heel, her body stooped over but her face quite calm as the infant flails, all chubby limbs and mouth wide open in a silent cry.

Sirius is about to triumphantly announce that he knows the baby is Achilles, thank you very much, when Remus lets out a howl of laughter and then raises his hand quite promptly to cover his mouth. He continues to chuckle behind his palm, the sound muffled but still kindling a fire in Sirius’ chest.

“What?”

Remus laughs.

“What is it?”

The laughter continues.

“No, seriously. Why are you laughing?”

Remus doesn’t even acknowledge his question, but his hysterics have devolved into shaking shoulders, squinted eyes and- is that a tear slipping from his eye?

“I don’t understand! What’s so funny?” Sirius exclaims, perhaps a little too loudly. A couple nearby glance their way so Sirius moves in a little closer. “You can’t do this to me. I need to know what it is now. Seriously, stop it. The suspense is killing me.”

Remus leans heavily on him for support, right there, in the middle of the gallery. He collects himself and wipes his eyes, focusing on returning his breathing to normal. Once he’s conquered his sudden outburst, he doesn’t pull away. (Sirius is sure he must be glowing.)

“I- I just-” He hesitates. “Oh my God, it’s so stupid.”

“Tell me.”

“That baby? That baby right there?” He points. “That’s the greatest of the Greek warriors.”

Sirius is quiet.

He looks at the sculpture, at the infant’s plump little body and warped features, hanging upside-down. He thinks of the Greek hero he knows; he thinks of evenings spent reading over Remus’ shoulder in the common room, Remus pulling him onto the sofa beside him and regaling the tales of Agamemnon and Odysseus and Hector and this little _gremlin_ before him.

“Holy shit.”

They laugh together and Sirius thinks he might understand art a little bit more now than he did five minutes ago. He also thinks he understands himself a little bit more too.

Remus’ arm tightens around Sirius’ shoulders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The sculpture referenced is “Thetis Dipping Achilles in the River Styx” (1790, Thomas Banks). It is currently in the V&A and it is one of my favourites. I do laugh hysterically every time I see it. 
> 
> Thank you for reading.


	5. Five.

_Reggie._

He wakes and the dream slips away. He pulls back the bed-hanging and grasps for his watch on his bedside table. It’s four o’clock in the morning. He gets up, goes to the loo and then leaves the stifling darkness of the dorm.

The black of the lake behind the glass is disturbed by the light, refracting and bending rays that cut like knives. They dance across the room over the ceiling and walls and floor. He might still be dreaming.

He sits, green leather like dragon scales, layered rugs beneath his socked feet. Loneliness is often a symptom of something else. His palms itch.

The dungeons are always so cold but his skin is thick and his heart is feverish and he watches the water. The sun rises; the black turns to blue.

There are so many bubbles and there are fish and plants. His teeth chatter. One day he will kill someone and he supposes he should want to. He will become a murderer and his parents will wear the blood with pride. His heart is bleached white.

He is not a lover. (That’s his brother. He had caught Sirius snogging that half-blood Gryffindor Prefect he was so fond of and had recoiled in shame. That was before he left, before the yelling and the crying and the wailing and the door slamming so loud that he had covered his ears and felt his blood rushing like a wildfire, his pulse pounding like his father beating his brother in the living room.) Yet he is not sure if he is a killer.

_I am nothing but words, / just a shape / of dreams or night. / I tremble._

He is what he is, whatever that may be. A student. A son. (A brother?) A pawn.

Dreams and memories are essentially the same, he thinks, aching a little with the weight of it all: a sequence that runs so neat and fluid like choreography, step by step, repeating over and over again.

First, the shock. (It had never happened before. It was new and fascinating and disturbing: emotion. A slap from mother now and again but never father, distant and cold, never him. Sirius must’ve done something monumentally disgraceful. Not that they ever spoke of it or of him.) Then the sickening crackle of the quiet and then the emptiness that came after. The sudden attention didn’t make up for it.

_Reggie._

Why couldn’t he have just controlled himself? Why was he so stubborn? Why was he so selfish?

Why did Sirius abandon him to their cruelty?

_Reggie._

That’s not his name.

_Regulus._

That doesn’t fit quite right either. 

The sun has risen and it is a bright Saturday morning. He curls up on the couch and falls asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote from “Herakles” by Euripides (trans. Anne Carson)
> 
> Thank you for reading.


	6. Six.

At breakfast, Dorcas Meadowes sits across the table from Lily.

“Um,” Lily starts.

“Morning!” Meadowes spoons some marmalade onto a piece of toast. “Did you write the Charms essay due today? I did but I’m sure it’s no good. Honestly, Flitwick is a lovely man but his essay questions are fucking boring.”

The Gryffindor table has now turned its collective attention to the Slytherin in their midst. James and the boys haven’t arrived yet but Lily is sure there’ll be a riot once they do.

Meadowes ignores the mouths agape around her and bites into her toast.

“Have you seen McKinnon this morning?” Crumbs fly everywhere.

“She showered after me,” Lily says and decides to give Meadowes a chance. She doesn’t seem to be instigating any arguments or pulling a prank of any sort. Lily inwardly curses her biases, blaming them on James and her newfound friendship with Sirius Black. “I’m sure she’ll be down in a minute.”

Lily pauses.

“May I ask why?”

Meadowes smiles and flicks her braids off of one shoulder before pouring herself some orange juice. She chews on her crusts and gestures towards Lily’s goblet, pouring for Lily after she nods her assent.

The other students turn back to their own breakfast and last minute homework after noting the lack of animosity between the two Prefects. 

Lily has never had a personal affront with Dorcas Meadowes; in fact, Dorcas Meadowes has always been somewhat of a motivator for Lily. They rival each other in schoolwork. Where Lily excels in Potions, Meadowes falls short, but her DADA marks are always much higher than Lily’s. Lily finds solace in the competition with another woman: sometimes the egos of young men can be a bit stifling. 

Then Marlene McKinnon is sliding onto the bench next to Meadowes and is grabbing her goblet, draining it as Meadowes half-heartedly protests between giggles.

Lily doesn’t know what to make of this.

“Morning, Lils.”

“Oh, so you’re not even going to say hi to me?” Meadowes pouts. 

“That ‘morning’ included you too.”

“It was specifically directed at Evans!”

Lily _really_ doesn’t know what to make of this.

“Good mooooorning, lesbians!”

Sirius Black has waltzed into the Great Hall.

It’s not loud enough for the whole student body to hear, but the Gryffindors definitely do. Sirius takes the space beside Lily, nodding at the girls across from him with a wolfish grin. 

“When we said we wanted to come out, we didn’t mean like that.” 

But Marlene is smiling. 

“Got it out of the way at least!” Meadowes is looking at Marlene with a soft expression. It’s the way James looks at her. The way she sometimes catches Sirius looking at Remus, when he thinks no one is watching. 

She’s shocked that Dorcas can be so open, wear her emotions like a statement that everyone can read, the words scrawled across her forehead like a protest sign. Lily hates that their happiness is an act of defiance but she’s glad Marlene has found someone (she always had an inkling). They lean into each other’s space and Sirius chatters away as if the green around Dorcas’ neck means nothing.

_I have been happier here than anywhere else._

(There are sneers from down the table, stares from across the hall. But Lily laughs as Marlene tells a crude joke and Dorcas guffaws in mock outrage and Sirius grins.

And when Remus sits on the other side of Sirius, inches of emptiness like a gaping chasm between them, her smile falters. She has to fight to keep the pity from her eyes.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote from Anne Lister’s diaries - you can read an article about her here:  
> https://www.bbc.co.uk/news/resources/idt-sh/the_life_and_loves_of_anne_lister
> 
> Thank you for reading.


	7. Seven.

“Move over.”

It’s- late. Dark outside, not that Remus noticed the sun setting. There’s no one else in the common room and his pot of tea is mostly empty and completely cold. Remus looks up at Peter who is standing beside the couch, eyebrows furrowed in concern but with a small smile on his face.

“I didn’t realise the time.”

“Yeah, well, move over.”

Remus obliges. 

Peter sits and offers a bowl of something beige and Remus takes a while to process the image. He’s been straining his eyes by the firelight, squinting over books and parchment and attempting to decipher Sirius and James’ handwriting (he missed Friday lessons and the last Hogsmeade trip of the term). He blinks and looks closer. It’s ice cream.

“Peanut butter,” Pete says, then yawns and stretches his legs out in front of him. “Honeydukes new recipe. James cast a Freezing Charm to keep it cold on the trip back and it’s been waiting upstairs for you all evening.”

“Oh. Thank you.”

“I thought I’d bring it down to you since you weren’t coming up.”

“I- thank you, Wormtail. Really.”

Remus takes a bite. It’s sweet and salty and coats his tongue, melting against the roof of his mouth and over his teeth. It’s _really_ good, ridiculously so, and it reminds him of the peanut butter cookies his Ma would make and tie up with string, a little twine bow on top, and present to him for the first day of Chanukah. She still sends a batch every year, though now in an airtight plastic container, and he and Lily always share a few after lighting the candles. Then he and the boys split the rest for breakfast the next morning. (Chanukah fifth year was the first holiday after Sirius had kissed Remus. Remus hadn’t known what Sirius had done until his mother sent another container of cookies, filled to the brim, with a note attached. Sirius had apparently sent her a letter, praising her baking and thanking her profusely with all the eloquence that the heir to the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black should have. Remus’ neck still burns when he thinks about it.)

“Bloody hell, this is incredible.”

Pete laughs. He grasps Remus’ shoulder for a minute, playfully jostles him (considerate of the deep ache in his muscles) and relaxes back into the cushions. 

“You’ve been working yourself to the bone,” he says and there’s something laced into his voice, knotted between the words and curling like heat into Remus’ head. “You’ve got to take a break at some point. You deserve it, mate.”

“I just can’t fall behind, you know?”

“NEWTs aren’t even till next year, Moony.”

Remus is aware, but he owes it to his teachers and his parents and his friends, owes it to _himself_. He can’t slip up; he has to prove… something. To whom, he doesn’t really know, but he also doesn’t really know what he’d do with himself otherwise. Dumbledore gave him this chance and he cannot waste it. 

He puts the empty bowl down on the coffee table and reaches to pick up a quill. 

“Come on.” Pete’s fingers clasp his elbow. “Let’s get you to bed.”

“But my work-”

“Nope!”

“At least let me clear up-”

“Sirius’ll kill me if he gets back from detention and you’re still studying.” He aims a pointed glare over his shoulder as he drags Remus up from the couch and towards the staircase. “I really don’t want him going all dog and slobbering over my bed like last  
time.”

Remus sighs and resigns himself to being pulled up to the dormitory, the taste of childhood and friendly concern on his tongue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There’s no referenced work that specifically inspired this one, but I did make peanut butter cookies yesterday (a lot worse than what I imagine Remus’ Ma to make) and also ate a large helping of peanut butter ice cream this evening. And by large helping I do mean half a tub.
> 
> Thank you for reading.


	8. Eight.

Sirius doesn’t miss his parents. He doesn’t miss Kreacher or the house or his bedroom (too cold in the winter, sweltering in the summer). He gladly leaves behind the days of thick curtains and sea-green wallpaper, if the sea was sick with a pestilence so deep it ran through the people who drowned in it, thickening the cooling blood of their corpses. The Potters’ is warm and vibrant with clean white paint that Sirius and James helped cover the walls with last summer. There’s an accent wall in the living room that Mrs Potter insisted on, an orangey-red that compliments the rug and leather sofa. The grounds are always fresh and singing; when it rains, they are reborn.

Still, he yearns for London.

The city and the country offer up two different sorts of freedom and Sirius must admit he prefers the former. The rolling hills and empty skies that surround the Potters’ Manor may soothe his heated skin (and remind him of the kisses behind the Lupins’ dilapidated barn) but London bustles and weeps and places a comforting hand on his shoulder. He is known and unknown. In a crowd he feels unplaceable but then he’ll catch someone's eye. A businessman, perhaps, in a pressed navy suit, or a young mother with the newest edition of Vogue UK rolled up in the bottom of her pram. They will see him and he will see them and he will feel their understanding of something that they cannot comprehend.

And he fears for them, for their friends and their family. 

But then the crowd will move like a shoal of fish and he will lose sight of whoever it was, whoever saw the fear in his eyes or the blood on his lip or the heart in his mouth. He will belong to himself again. All but one (tiny, insignificant, gaping and trembling) corner of London loves him dearly.

He loves her back.

_When a man is tired of London, he is tired of life; for there is in London all that life can afford._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quote from Samuel Johnson
> 
> Thank you for reading.

**Author's Note:**

> And that's that! My first published work! I really wish I had written more, as initially this was supposed to be a chapter-a-day sort of thing, but life got in the way as per usual. But I still have so many ideas buzzing around my head so hopefully I'll actually get around to writing those soon. 
> 
> And as always, thank you for reading.


End file.
